


but do you have bubbles

by deniigiq



Series: Dumpster Fires Verse [38]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Deadpool - All Media Types
Genre: Drugs, Drunkenness, Foggy is the designated driver, Gen, Team Bonding, Team Dynamics, Team Red, There are reasons why Wade never asks Matt to do anything, he does not want to play on the slides
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 01:17:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20106787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deniigiq/pseuds/deniigiq
Summary: Foggy made a highly interesting sound upon entering the apartment unannounced and honestly that was his own fault. If he’d wanted a semblance of cleanliness or a façade of normalcy, Karen’s place wasn’t three blocks away.“Matty, why?” Foggy asked over the sound of scraping.Why?Why???You don’t ask these kinds of questions, dear heart.(Wade makes the mistake of asking Matt to help him with a job.)





	but do you have bubbles

**Author's Note:**

> i've been traumatized today so please have this nonsense. 
> 
> There is reference below to drug use in the past, but there is nothing explicit or graphic down below.

There was a smell in the house.

There was a smell in the house and it was not one of the ones allowed to be in the house. It had not passed go or collected two hundred dollars. It certainly hadn’t passed its damn exams to earn a place in Matt’s house and he was 99% sure that its presence in his living room was somehow Jessica’s fault. 

The only way to deal with this smell, then, was to destroy it.

So he said a prayer for his living room floor and one for his soul and then rolled up his pants.

Foggy made a highly interesting sound upon entering the apartment unannounced and honestly that was his own fault. If he’d wanted a semblance of cleanliness or a façade of normalcy, Karen’s place wasn’t three blocks away.

“Matty, _why_?” Foggy asked over the sound of scraping.

Why?

Why???

You don’t ask these kinds of questions, dear heart. You don’t walk into a place and ask why the house smells bad, wrong, and terrible. You just do what the house tells you needs to be done.

You know.

Like eradicate the threat.

“Matt, can we not? Can we, just for one day, not?”

Not what, dear partner? Subdue whatever beast is infesting this humble abode?

“Why are we—why are you talking like that, Matt? Please. Please don’t do this. Can we please just call an exterminator like a human person? Preferably at a decent hour? Let’s say, maybe 8 from now? I’m sure whatever it is, is just some kind of dead critter—”

Matt gave no dead things permission to enter his house.

“I know this, pal. But here’s the thing: dead things kind of do not care if, when, and where they’re chillin’ post-death. This is, more or less, the beauty of death.”

And see. Matt heard this. He got this.

But whatever the fuck this thing was, it wasn’t dead. It was Jessica’s fault, that was for sure. But it wasn’t dead.

“Are you going to help or not?” he demanded of Fogs.

“Help what, exactly?” Fogs demanded back, “Help you tear up your floorboards _again_? For the third time this year? Is that what you’re asking me to do?”

“Yes.”

There was a long moment of Foggy processing emotions. Each emotion had a different squeak associated with it. Matt had them memorized. Even the obscure ones like the ‘these dumplings are very hot and have not gotten any less hot in the last two seconds, but I think I’m gonna chance it again anyways.’

The emotion that Fogs got stuck on this time was a complicated one. It was a cross between ‘you are so stupid I could cry’ and ‘I’m going to do this anyways aren’t I?’

Matt was familiar with it because Fogs had whipped it out that one time Matt had gotten maybe a little too drunk with Jess and they’d both remembered how fun slides were.

That didn’t seem too long ago, actually, when was that?

Last week?

Last year?

“An hour ago, Matt. Man, you are still drunk, do you know how drunk you are right now?”

Oho!

An hour ago indeed!

This was why it was Jess. Ah, yes. The pieces were coming together now. Good. Excellent. Just in time, too. Matt needed some good thumbs.

Foggy didn’t believe him when he said he didn’t have thumbs. He kept saying things like ‘it’s time to go to bed. Here, boy! Come here!’ like Matt was some kind of dog.

He was not.

A dog, that is.

He was, however, potentially thumb-less.

“Matty, no. You definitely have thumbs, buddy. I’m looking at ‘em. They’re doing a great job.”

Foggy was becoming somewhat more patronizing the longer this exchange went on.

Well that needed fixing.

“Matt, listen. I think what you’re trying to say here is that you’re _all_ thumbs. Is that what you’re—”

ALL THUMBS.

That’s RIGHT.

The goal here needed to make _less thumbs_.

Fuck. What was he even thinking? Where was that hammer?

“Woah, okay. No. Home improvement is not your forte, friend. You know what is, though? Silk sheets. Come on, pal let’s leave the hammer. We don’t need a hammer. You in particular don’t need a hammer.”

Why NOT?

“Matt, work with me. You are heavy as shit. I am not a Greek god.”

YET.

“I’m gonna leave that one.”

The distance to the smell was increasing. This was the opposite of the goal. Action had to be taken and fast.

“Oh for the love of—alright,” Foggy cried over Matt’s valiant attempts to make action happen quick-like. “Whatever. Here, you have a job. Sit. Be pretty. Yes, just like that, you’re doing amazing. You just keep on doing that.”

The sound of Foggy’s weekend sneakers stomping back towards the bad smell brought warm feelings. Pleased feelings. Validation. Yes, the smell would be addressed. Examined by someone with functional eyes. Evaluated by a trustworthy—

“Matt, what the fuck is this?”

Trustworthy…trustworthy…

Coke. That was coke.

How did he know that was coke?

Did he hide coke in his floor? When did he do that?

“Dude, you said you weren’t doing shit anymore. I thought—”

OH SHIT.

THE COKE.

“S’not mine,” he struggled to inform Foggy. “S’Wade’s. Said to keep it. Hide it from the…guns?”

Foggy’s silence sure was heavy.

“_With_ the guns?” Foggy asked.

And like, with? Psh. No. _From_. Matt was an ace listener. Wade had said to hide the coke from the guns for two…days? Days. No. That wasn’t right. The smell had only been invading the house for hours. It was there when he’d gotten in like, an hour ago.

“Matt, we’ve only been here for thirty minutes. Focus. And listen good, okay?”

Oh, yes. Ace at listening. Any day of the week. Any time of the year. Matt was your guy for all things listening-related.

“I know. Okay, so—you listening?”

Yes.

“You are not convincing me that you are listening.”

But he _was _though.

“Matt, listening does not involve chewing. Let’s leave our fingers alone for two minutes, yeah?”

Yeah.

“Excellent. So—listening now—there is a bag of washing detergent in your floorboards.”

Washing—no. That was coke.

“No, honey. It’s soap. The kind you hate.”

No, no. Not soap. Coke.

“No. It’s definitely soap.”

COKE.

“Matt.” Foggy’s noises were edging towards ‘you are my friend but I want to hurt you right now’ territory.

That was Foggy language for ‘shut the fuck up or I will leave you on this floor.’ Matt knew this one too. To be doubly sure that he wasn’t in danger of invoking Foggy’s wrath he got both hands over his mouth. Just in case one wasn’t enough.

“Thank you,” Foggy said. His pulse went down a bit.

Score.

Outsmarting the angry.

“Matt.”

What is this tone? This is a laughing tone. This is not a laughing situation, Franklin. There is coke happening.

“Matt. Sweetheart. It’s soap. I can smell it. You can smell it. I’m holding it. We both know what coke feels like. Here, touch.”

NO.

WADE SAID--

WAIT.

“Foggy this is not coke,” Matt said.

Foggy made a series of throat noises and then said, “Mm-hm.”

“This is soap,” Matt explained to him.

Bad soap too. Awful soap. Cheap soap.

Detergent of the devil himself.

Smelled like carpet dust and ammonia. Smelled like a cup of craft store tea, mixed with drain cleaner. Smelled like hatred in a bottle. Or tub, rather. This hatred wasn’t good enough to bottle. It had to be inflicted upon unsuspecting laundry in dry particle form.

Foggy was wheezing a little bit.

“Matt,” he kind of choked. “Wade gave you fake coke to guard.”

Why would he do that, though??

Matt was great at guarding. Matt was amazing at guarding.

“I know, buddy. You’re so good at it. I think it’s the guns he wants you to guard.”

But there were no guns.

“What are these then?”

GUNS.

FOGGY.

GUNS.

IN HIS APARTMENT.

Foggy just wheezed at him. The wheezing was not of the helpful variety. It was possibly of the asthmatic variety.

That required inspection.

“Woah. Woah, woah. Close, much. You’re okay, bud. It’s okay. Let’s just sleep a little, huh? Just a little sleep and—Matt where are you going with that?”

Hiding.

“Matty. Matty, that’s the—that’s the fridge. Soap doesn’t—”

Does now, motherfucker.

He woke up to Wade breathing on him and quickly realized that he was not on any type of surface at all.

Wade’s fists were unusually hot. His pulse unusually high.

“Darling. Sweetums. Redthew,” Wade gritted out lovingly. “Where the FUCK is the coke?”

Ah.

Yes.

In the fridge.

Wade dropped him back onto the bed and made a fuckload of unnecessary noise on his journey to the kitchen. He slammed open the fridge door and Matt flopped over to yank the covers over his head only to hear a weird, new Wade-noise.

He was still cataloguing Wade-noises.

But even he could tell that this wasn’t a good one.

If he had any doubts about that, the reverse free-fall Wade inflicted upon him shortly thereafter confirmed it.

“Red,” Wade said with a patience that did not match his rushing pulse, “This is _soap_.”

Yes. Yes, that was what drunk Matt last night had determined.

Wade’s breathing got very slow.

“Why is this soap, Matthew?”

Woah.

Full name.

Matt got hands on the ones Wade had clutched in his shirt.

“You lef’ me soap,” he slurred.

Wade stayed very quiet for a long time, then gently lowered his forehead until it was resting against Matt’s. It was kind of nice, actually. Wade was warm.

“You precious little cretin,” Wade hummed. “You darling little baby bird.”

The epithets were unnecessary, but this forehead action could stay.

It did not. Because life is cruel and so is Wade Wilson.

Wade lowered him back down to the bed and slapped his cheek lightly and whispered, “I’m sorry, kiddo, but I need to go kill your sister.”

Alright? Sure? Whatever?

Wade patted at him again and told him to go back to sleep and you know what? That was great idea. 


End file.
